


(18. Misfit) / A.Z. Fell & Co. see also: Safe Haven.

by Mothfluff



Series: GO-ctober Prompts 2019 [18]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, October Prompt Challenge, One Word Prompts, Queer Youth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 21:48:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21106541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothfluff/pseuds/Mothfluff
Summary: My attempts at an October Challenge, using the original Inktober prompts for drabbles.(Each prompt will be posted as part of a series, not chapters, so I can add tags/characters/ratings/trigger warnings for each instead of the whole she-bang)Prompt 18 - Misfit“They're not customers.” Aziraphale protested yet again, and he was right. Marsha (the girl from the cafe had introduced herself two weeks ago, after several days spent reading pretty much everything the shop had to offer with even the slightest hint of LGBT+ in it), and her friends, and all the other young people they'd told about the safe haven that A.Z. Fell's Books had become, had never tried to buy even one of his beloved books. “They're just young people who need information. And they're all very polite.”“What if you get some in that aren't polite? What if they're a bit angry?”“Well, I figured I'd hand them over to you.” A small grin, a tiny bit of bastard showing through. “I think you could teach them a thing or two about proper protesting and rebelling.”“What if you get people in who aren't happy about what you're doing?”“Well.” Aziraphale patted his cheek with a smile. “I figured I'd still hand them over to you.”





	(18. Misfit) / A.Z. Fell & Co. see also: Safe Haven.

“We don't want _that_ kind of stuff advertised here. Sorry.” The server behind the till did not look sorry in the least. The young girl in front, letting the stack of flyers sink down in her hands, whispering a quiet 'sorry' herself, seemed far more apologetic.

Aziraphale, two people down the line to order, was not one to eavesdrop or cause a scene at a coffee shop (or anywhere in particular). Especially not with a demon in tow who was known for causing quite some scenes if he wanted to.

But seeing the polite young girl turn away with such a defeated look in her face, feeling the pain and hurt and fear of her washing over his senses almost made his blood boil. He was sure Crowley'd felt it too, at least judging by the slight squeeze his hand gave, almost involuntarily. Demons were meant to enjoy such feelings from humans, but demons were meant to do a lot of things Crowley didn't.

“Whatcha got there?” He stopped the girl in her tracks, and Aziraphale silently thanked him for it.

“Maybe I can take some of your flyers for my shop.” He held out a friendly hand towards them, but the girl recoiled. His hand sank.

“No, uhm, it's fine, I wouldn't want to cause-” she stammered, looking the angel up and down, and for once he almost cursed his rather old-fashioned dress. Her flyers, covered in all kinds of colourful flags and symbols, had told him enough – her wary look towards what she probably considered a very conservative older gentleman only made it clearer.

“Don't worry, dear. I've got a lot of local pamphlets and flyers lying around, I'm sure there's space for some of yours.” He gave her what he hoped was a re-assuring smile while lifting a hand for the flyers again, but she barely saw it. Her eyes wandered down to his other hand instead, tightly locked with Crowley's.

Some of the tension in her shoulders disappeared.

“Oh, ok.” She took a stack of the flyers and pushed them into the angel's hand. A quick smile flashed across her face. “Thanks. Can I- may I ask which shop you own?”

“The antique bookshop on the corner.”

“Oh!” Her eyes lit up. “You're Mr. Fell!”

-*-

“I'm sorry, sir.” A quiet voice interrupted his reading, more fitting for a library than a bookshop, but then again, was his bookshop not more of a library anyway? “Do you have a bathroom I could use?”

Aziraphale's eyes barely lifted off of the book, staring at the person in front of him over the rim of his glasses. “Not one for customers, I'm afraid. I believe the cafe at the end of the street has facilities.”

“Oh. Sure.” The young man played with his shirtsleeve, long eyelashes batting down in a shy look. “I just don't think they'll want me to-”

“Second door behind the Ancient History bookshelf.”

A quick 'Thank you' before he darted down the pointed direction, and Aziraphale caught Crowley with one of his rare soft smiles across the front room.

“I thought you didn't like customers rifling around unobserved.”

“He's not a customer.” Aziraphale closed the book after marking his place, picking up some of the flyers from the till to place them next to the entrance. Maybe he'd see them while leaving. “He's just a kid who needs support.”

“And a non-judgemental toilet, I guess.”

Aziraphale stared out the door's window, down the street. “That cafe is troubling, though.”

“Nothing you can do, angel.” Crowley swept his legs over the chair's armrest. “Plenty I could do, though. Want me to get health inspectors in there? Still got some rat friends that owe me a favour.”

“No, no.” Aziraphale tutted as he heard the bathroom door that hadn't existed ten minutes prior open and close. “We'll simply have to be better.”

The boy awkwardly shuffled past the lounging demon, throwing a small smile towards the angel. “Thank you, Mr. Fell.”

“No trouble at all, my dear boy.” He watched his face light up at the words.

“Tell your friends.” Crowley said and almost managed not to sound nice. “Take a flyer.”

-*-

“You can ask him. Don't worry.”

“I can't!”

Aziraphale pretended not to hear the whispers. The two kids had come in almost an hour before, and were hiding one bookshelf over. And again, he wasn't one to eavesdrop.

“Do you want me to ask?”

A quiet pause. A tense feeling giving way to some relief.

“Please.”

“Mr. Fell?” The young girl he recognised from the cafe several weeks before, who'd come to visit once or twice, rounded past the bookshelves towards him. “Do you have any books about research into different sexualities? Just to read, sir. We'll be careful.” She'd spent several hours deep into a book about queer symbolism in poetry the last time she'd come by, and Aziraphale had noticed with quite some joy that she had indeed been very careful with the book and had shown no intention to buy it, either.

The other girl was hiding a few feet away, and he pretended not to see her shaking as he smiled.

“I certainly do! They're a bit hidden, I'm afraid, the sorting system is difficult to manoeuvre. Let me show you.”

He went down several rows, the two girls in tow, pulling out a few worn and faded hardcovers.

“These, and if you're interested, I have some more recent paperbacks I can get for you.”

“I thought you only had antiques.” The asking girl kept asking, as her shy companion took the books Aziraphale had offered her.

“My husband suggested I expand a little bit, and I have to agree with him. There've been some very interesting things coming out the past few years.”

He was met with a beaming smile.

-*-

“Help me with the flag, please, dearest.” Aziraphale balanced with one foot on the stepstool, holding on to the window's frame. Crowley took one step up on the windowsill, pulled the rainbow flag from his hands and hung it across the curtain rod without so much as needing to stretch.

“You've really gotten into this, haven't you?” He grinned as he patted the side of the new, old bookshelf that had wedged itself into the front room, filled with literature and research and informational booklets. The windowsill beside the entrance was overflowing with flyers, pamphlets, and more booklets. A poster from the local youth club was obscuring the window facing down the road, towards the cafe.

“I like to help out. They have so many questions I feel incapable of answering properly. No one should be afraid to ask questions.” Aziraphale pulled on the flag's edges, making sure it hung properly. “By the way, could you set up one of those wifi-things for me? With a password, maybe? Marsha said there was a lot of resources online.”

“You can just look it up on your computer, angel, it's been working without wifi for years.”

“Yes, but...” He fiddled with the edges of the flag some more, almost pulling it down again. “I was thinking of setting up some tables, you know, Marsha brought her portable computer last time, and I imagine some of the other kids might want to do some research, and it's difficult at home sometimes-”

“Sure.” Crowley gave him another one of those soft smiles, the ones he cherished the most. “But you know it's gonna cause more and more customers coming in here, right?”

“They're not customers.” Aziraphale protested yet again, and he was right. Marsha (the girl from the cafe had introduced herself two weeks ago, after several days spent reading pretty much everything the shop had to offer with even the slightest hint of LGBT+ in it), and her friends, and all the other young people they'd told about the safe haven that A.Z. Fell's Books had become, had never tried to buy even one of his beloved books. “They're just young people who need information. And they're all very polite.”

“What if you get some in that aren't polite? What if they're a bit angry?”

“Well, I figured I'd hand them over to you.” A small grin, a tiny bit of bastard showing through. “I think you could teach them a thing or two about proper protesting and rebelling.”

“What if you get people in who aren't happy about what you're doing?”

“Well.” Aziraphale patted his cheek with a smile. “I figured I'd still hand them over to you.”

-*-

“Do you think what you're doing here is proper?”

Crowley had tried to figure out where he recognised the lady that had come in minutes ago. As she stood beside the till now, a scowl on her face as she threw the question into Aziraphale's, he remembered with fiery hatred. He'd almost forgotten her face, considering they hadn't been back to the cafe ever since that day with Marsha and her flyers.

“I assure you my business is all set up and properly done, miss. Taxes and all.” Aziraphale smiled, but Crowley could tell it was fake, how it never entered his eyes. He was gearing up to interrupt, but the lady was faster.

“Not that.” She scoffed. “_That_.” Her hand pointed accusingly at the flag in the window, the bookshelf beside it, the layer of flyers. “You think it's proper to harbour these kind of ideas? To spread it to misinformed young people?”

“They're not misinformed. They're excellent at research.”

“You're leading them down a path of debauchery and self-destruction!”

Crowley's hand on her shoulder was ice-cold, and his glare even from behind sunglasses was not much better.

“You're getting it all wrong. Debauchery is _my_ job, and I've been retired for a while now.” He smiled at her, teeth bared in the way a cat would smile at its prey before killing it. “And if I catch you yelling at my husband again, I will show you a thing or two about destruction.”

She stuttered and stammered, almost looking as if she was going to start a fight, before shoving his hand off her shoulder and practically running out of the shop. Crowley's stare followed her.

“I'm calling in the rats.”

Aziraphale sighed and nodded. “Please do.”

Aziraphale hadn't said a word all afternoon. He'd pretended to be engrossed by some book, hiding in the backroom after closing shop early (the doorbell was still on, however, hidden behind a rainbow sticker outside, installed just weeks before and quietly whispered about amongst the groups seeking refuge in the shops even when the door was locked. Mr. Fell never turned away anyone who rang the bell). Crowley could tell he was not reading. He'd barely turned twenty pages in the past two hours.

“It's still bothering you. I warned you.”

“I just don't understand.” He mumbled as Crowley handed him a cup of hot chocolate. “Why people have to be so judgemental and hateful.”

“Hate to say it, but the churches your lot started haven't really helped that particular topic.”

“They're supposed to be loving. Welcoming.” Aziraphale took a sip, and Crowley leaned against the desk next to him.

“When's the last time you saw someone connected to Upstairs in any way do the thing they're supposed to be doing? Including Upstairs themselves.”

Aziraphale sighed again, staring at the cup in his hands. Crowley waited beside him, patiently. The angel was not done, but he'd give him all the time in the world to formulate what he wanted to say.

“They just want to _be_. And find a place where they fit in.”

This wasn't just about the kids going in and out of the shop anymore, and they both knew it. Deep down, Aziraphale had always known, and was glad Crowley hadn't pointed out the obvious yet, even if he had probably realised long before him.

They'd never fit in anywhere. They'd had to fight tooth and nail for themselves to just _be_. For their own side.

“You've done a great job giving them that place, angel.” Crowley's voice, soft and quiet and full of love, finally broke the silence. His hand rested on Aziraphale's shoulder, far kinder than it had been hours ago on the cafe-owners. “Don't let one stuck-up, hateful bitch get you down and ruin it.”

“Oh, I won't.” Aziraphale sat up with a determined, small smile. “It's not the first time I've had to deal with people unhappy with what I do, and with whom I consort.”

Crowley grinned before Aziraphale took his hand and carefully kissed it.

“And if all else fails, I can always hand them off to you, with your debauchery and destruction.”

“Proud to help.”

“Proud to have you.”


End file.
